In Isolation, We
by sturmgalan
Summary: China/Japan, calligraphy on a hot summer day. And Japan wants.


De-anoning from the Kink Meme. (De-anon'd on LJ long ago, but I don't really use LJ any more.) Prompt was "China/Japan, calligraphy/painting. bonus points if one of them is used as a substitute for paper."

* * *

It's noontime on a sweltering day of an already sweltering summer. With the heat and humidity, China has forsaken propriety for comfort; his changshan is half-off, the cloth crumpled at his waist. The sweat never quite dries off his skin, even though he is sprawled against the cool wood floor, his back exposed to the open air. Once in awhile, he shifts, pulls the hair tie out or twists it back in again. He can't make up his mind whether to keep it in or out. It's too warm for him to care about anything, and anyway, there's no one for miles to see but Japan.

And Japan is crouching over books and scrolls, poring over the literature and making it his own.

But even with his hair cut short to his nape, he can feel the heat too, sticking his clothes and smothering him. Even with just the one layer, it is too warm, but he is determined not to follow China's example and strip down. Perhaps China can afford to do so, but he can't bring himself to lower his defences so much. He focuses on the words instead, and once in awhile he dips the horse-hair brush into the ink and transfers thought to paper as he sees fit.

It takes the third time his concentration slips to he realise his gaze keeps falling to China. He's staring, but he can't help staring at the expanse of flesh unmarked by anything. For all that he considers himself _the land on which the sun rises_, and China on which the sun sets, regards himself as equal to China- for all that, there's no denying what that revealed skin represents. It's so much _territory_, land he's always had his eyes on. He can't look away.

(China tries to bury himself deeper into the wood, _so hot aruuu~ aaaah, I want water,_ and half-heartedly ties his hair up again. The words come out muffled, end up lost in the ground.)

It doesn't mean anything, except in his own mind, what he's about to do. He grabs the brush and ink pot as he stands, and with soft steps he walks over to where China lays. China doesn't notice him, or perhaps just disregards him; what shadow he might have cast is overlapped by the shades of the awning. "Water?" China asks when he kneels down, but he ignores the man in favor of bringing the brush to China's back. China yelps at the feeling of ink, and over protests and 'What are you doing!'s, he begins to write the characters for 'Nippon'. The end result is messy, the ink dripping black streaks as it mixes with sweat and China keeps trying to turn.

"Stop moving," he says, and draws a broad stroke down the middle of China's back. China's breath hitches.

He begins drawing his own land on the parts of skin still clean - the islands, the sun, the places he already calls his own. China's breaths are coming shallower and shallower, but he's too distracted by his artwork to realize it, see what it means. In the middle of painting the largest island, China finally lets out a long sigh, "Japan, that feels _really good_."

All the forgotten summer heat comes rushing back, and more besides. By the time China turns to face him - and hadn't it been too hot to move? - his face is completely red, and China keeps _looking_ at him with something like fondness. It is fondness, he realizes, or maybe just want, because China is sitting up, bringing him closer, gently _kissing_ him and he really didn't think his face could get any redder.

_Good trading relations indeed,_ his mind supplies, a little hysterically. They can't do this! They shouldn't! They-

He's tilting backwards, and grabbing at anything, his fingers press into the still-wet ink, leave little prints down China's bare arms as he flails. The brush has been dropped somewhere, China is bent over him, smiling languidly, and then- and then China-

China _flops_ onto him, "Aaaaah, I really can't move after all, aru."

It's even warmer now, with their shared body heat, but Japan can't quite bring himself to push China off yet. Idly he traces his name against China again, his stained finger making wobbled strokes.

It's in his grasp. It's not. Someday, he thinks, someday he will really, truly take it.


End file.
